


The New Year Writing Challenge (January 2020)

by ActuallyGimli



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, New years writing challenge, Other, aditional warnings per chapter, january 2020, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyGimli/pseuds/ActuallyGimli
Summary: New year's resolution: write every day. A list of 30 writing prompts to be completed daily in January of 2020. The prompts list is to be posted by or on January 1st of the new year. This is a challenge that can be joined by anyone. Use the prompt's here, or make/find your own. I am not writing in a fandom for this, but this challenge can be used by fanfiction writers.
Kudos: 3





	1. Prompt List

1\. Create and describe a fifth season.  
2\. Describe a color without naming it or any of it’s shades.  
3\. Portray the passing of time without being boring.  
4\. Write a silly poem with 6 15 syllable lines.  
5\. Write a letter to your younger self.  
6\. Describe a room full of people as if you were blind.  
7\. Write what you would do on a rainy day.  
8\. Make up the most ridiculous name you can think of, then describe that person’s day.  
9\. “If you don’t risk anything, you risk more.” What does this mean to you?  
10\. Write something that starts with Emily Dickinson’s line, “Bring me the sunset in a cup.”  
11\. What is your greatest fear?  
12\. In one minute, list as many thing as you can think of that can be found in a hospital. Then write a story that isn’t set in a hospital using all those words.  
13\. Pick a piece of furniture and write a story from it’s point of view.  
14\. Complete the statement, “I’d walk a mile for a ____” and then continue from there.  
15\. Write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest.  
16\. Use this metaphor to spark a poem or story: a chest of childhood.  
17\. What is your most prized possession?  
18\. Describe a place or event using all five senses.  
19\. Write a scary story that starts in a thrift store.  
20\. Write a story using the line, “There’s a herd of them!”  
21\. Invent and describe a new disease.  
22\. Have three people give you one word each, use these in a story.  
23\. Take something cute or normal and make it scary or weird.  
24\. Take something scary or weird and make it cute or normal.  
25\. Describe yourself from an outsider’s perspective.  
26\. Write a recipe for something that isn’t food.  
27\. Put your music on shuffle and write something inspired by the first song that plays.  
28\. Create an advertisement for a product that doesn’t exist.  
29\. Write about something in nature.  
30\. Describe a day from your pet’s point of view.


	2. Create and describe a fifth season.

The television plays the familiar chime of a local news station. “This is Dianne Meyers, and you’re watching Acre News: the only station that gives you up-to-date local and worldwide news stories on the hour, every hour. The sports section of tonight’s broadcast is canceled due to all local and national teams coming down with numerous cases of ash-lung, this development caused the cancelation of this season altogether. If you or a loved one has suffered from ash-lung, don’t forget to go to your local Pulmonologist to receive your annual lung cancer screening! Now on to Martin for tonight’s weather update. Martin?”  
  
“Thanks, Dianne, Martin Ford here to give you an update on this week’s weather. We reached a record-high temperature today of 187 degrees, but don’t let that discourage you. Summer looks like it’s going to come early this year and give us some relief from the sweltering heat of Zardan. By the end of the week, temperatures should be as low as 120 degrees and even 114 in some mountain areas. The plastic warning has been dismissed as of tonight, so you can safely put your patio furniture back outside without fear of it melting. Mind you, it will still receive an ash dusting. Speaking of ash, we have sight distance of just ten feet at the moment due to the high concentrations of volcanic ash in the air. To those of you who have sensitivity to air pollution, an advisory has been issued that you stay inside until Monday when the air should clear up significantly with the arrival of an acid rainstorm. Record low rain pH of 1.7 is expected Monday, so make sure your children wear Hazmat certified rain-suits and carry umbrellas to school. Now back to Dianne.”  
  
“Thanks, Martin. Wow, a record high temperature this Zardan and a record low pH acid rain, can you believe that? Summer can’t come soon enough. Makes you wish we had time machines to travel back in time a few hundred years to the early 2000s when we only had four seasons and didn’t believe in global warming. Good times, I imagine. Now onto the crime report…”


	3. Describe a color without naming it or any of it’s shades.

Today my heart holds the color of melancholy cities, concrete strewn with dust. Hazy air lingers around the dull swarms of businessmen rushing through the motions. The day-in, day-out of construction sites layered in a sedimentary film of ash from laborious and colorless weeks of work.  
  
I bear the mood of dark clouds on a stormy evening, as I watch them through my apartment window. The same shade as the brick building across the way, my heart abides in the unsaturated lifeless day-to-day. I persist as the color of dead embers when the last flicker of heat and life has dwindled away. The cinders remain forgotten and unchanged, lifeless, and drained.  
  
My mind endures like the faded and tattered blanket in the closet, covered in years of dust and loneliness. My gaze appears as dreary as the elderly man across the hall with his lifeless eyes and weathered skin. Everything is as lackluster as the sparse hair he combs into place just to have it fall out little by little as the years march slowly by.  
  
I endure the feeling of the inevitable marching of time, the decaying of boulders, and the erosion of mountain faces and monuments. The howl of my heart becomes a distant memory as I stare at the vastness of the moon and contemplate my insignificance. I linger on like a wolf with a solemn whimper and a life of wistfulness.  
  
Closing my eyes, my thoughts drift further into the barren recesses of my mind. The dismal abyss of quarries in my every passing thought paints a solemn shade over my life. Today, I feel the color of the melancholy moon and the gloom of the wolf who couldn’t bear the monotony to howl another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is accepted during this challenge, encuraged even.


	4. Portray the passing of time without being boring.

Growing up unfolds in strange ways, lacing itself with memories, later forgotten. I do not look back on the first breath of air taken or the way my mother’s teary eyes looked the first time I saw her with my blurred infant’s gaze. I cannot recall what my favorite toy was as a baby or what it felt like to crawl. The utter joy my mother must have experienced as her pride and joy took her first step and said her first word, lost inside my mind forever. My young mind did not retain such vital achievements.  
  


I do remember pieces of my childhood. On my eighth birthday, My mother and I decorated a strawberry cake; I was excited to help with it. On the day of the party, my best friend at the time, gave me a necklace with my name beautifully engraved on the back. I reminisce about watching mom cook homemade bread after grinding her own flour. I used to share a bedroom with my sister, and I recall climbing into bed with my mother many times when I had a nightmare or just couldn’t sleep.  
  


Yet, I do not remember the last time I climbed into my mother’s bed after a bad dream. I can not recall how old I was the last time my mother stopped a silly fight between my sister and me over something as small as a toy. At some point, my mother stopped cutting my food into bite-sized pieces and stopped checking on me in the middle of the night. She slowly stopped doing things for me as I learned to do them myself. I do not remember the last time I had to have a booboo kissed better, or the last time I simply stirred ingredients for a meal instead of cooking on my own. I do not recollect the last time my mother celebrated a milestone in my development, nor the day she last picked me up and held me in her arms.  
  


At some point, I grew up. I do not remember growing up.


	5. Write a silly poem with 6 15 syllable lines.

Today I met a woodpecker, with a red feathered mohawk,  
He offered me a secret treasure in exchange for a walk.  
So, I strolled with him for many laps around the city block,  
Yet all the while we went along, the woodpecker did not talk.  
Then after long hours of walking, with not so much as a squawk,  
He flew away for my secret prize; the treasure was a sock.


	6. Describe a room full of people as if you were blind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw death mention, tw disability

I sit down in the waiting room chair, my guide dog, Bailey, panting at my feet. The waiting room for the dentist’s office is small, as told by the way it echoes the sound of the few other patrons accompanying my wait. The barely-there hum of the electric lights tells me how old the place is.  
  
A chair squeaks a few seats to my left as the occupant re-adjusts. There is the distinct sound of clinking jewelry, and I imagine it to be many bangle bracelets on the woman’s arms. The chime of metal on metal happens again only moments later as she coughs, presumably into her hand laden in jewelry.  
  
Across the room, probably less than seven feet away, I hear the turning over of paper. Someone is peacefully reading a book to bide their time. The clack of heels distracts me as someone approaches the waiting area.  
  
“Mr. Anderson?” a nurse calls out, and I can hear the man slowly raise himself from a seat to my right. He hobbles with a limp and the occasional tap of a walking cane. The heels of the nurse retreat with less haste than before, following the gait of the elderly man.  
  
“I think we arrived just after him,” says another elderly man from the direction of the turning pages, “I should be the next one back then.” A preoccupied hum of acknowledgment comes from beside him, his wife too engrossed in her book to comment further. Her voice is soft and frail, like the cookies I imagine she must bake, though I do not smell any sweets.  
  
It smells like the mint and disinfectant of a dentist’s office as well as musty carpet and a faint hint of tobacco smoke. The woman to my left coughs again into her bangled arm. The cough of a chain-smoker who wears cheap and clanky bracelets and wiggles too much in her seat.  
  
The bell above the office door rings as it’s opened. The quick and delicate gait of a single patron fills the near-silence of the waiting area as they walk towards the sign-in desk. By Bailey’s excitement, I can already tell she looks a little like my sister — Small, bubbly, and feminine. Her voice confirms her personality when she speaks to the receptionist.  
  
Bailey is wagging her tail in excitement as the young woman sits where Mr. Anderson had been before. I run my fingers through her soft fur to calm her down, and perhaps, to calm myself down as well. How do you explain to a dog that she will never see your sister walk through a door again?


	7. Write a letter to your younger self.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw self harm reference, tw suicidal ideation reference, tw depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late/out of order because of how long it took me to write something that wasn't too personal, even though this is pretty personal.

Dear 12-year-old self,

You do not deserve this pain. You are unbelievably strong just by the fact I can tell you this now. I know you do not feel like you deserve better, you feel like you deserve to hurt. That is just the voices in your head lying to you. You are not a bad person. So much has been thrust upon your young shoulders, yet you are still fighting.  
  
I know it feels hopeless, but it is never hopeless. Your life is worth fighting for. You think you are fighting a losing battle, and it still feels that way sometimes. Yet, I am still here. Even though you do not believe you will make it to your future, I am proof that you did, and I’m so glad. You are stronger than you realize.  
  
Giving up sounds considerably easier. It would be far less effort not to care, but you do care. You care far more deeply than most people realize. Everything hurts right now, but know that it will not always be this way. Some days are better than others, fight for those days.  
  
Do not abandon your dreams. Do not lose hope in your future. Fight for what you want, but realize that wanting something is not always enough. Failure is inevitable, but that is life. Do not blame yourself for things out of your control. Your worth is not measured by your success.  
  
Do not be afraid to try new things and fail at them. You think you are not good enough, but what if you are? Dream your dreams, plan your future, live your life. Most importantly, let people in. It is hard for you to trust but do it anyway.  
  
You do not deserve this pain, but hiding it away will not help you. Ask for help. The voices in your head are paranoid, and they do not have your best interest at heart. There are ways to deal with this pain that are not destructive and harmful. Trust me when I say that there are few things you will regret more than picking up that first blade.  
  
Take care of yourself. We will be around a lot longer than you think.

Love,  
Me


	8. Write what you would do on a rainy day.

I awaken to the soft pattering of raindrops on the balcony above my bedroom window. A faint glow is cast across the plush blankets on the bed by the cloudy sky above. It is calm and warm inside, away from the melody of watery footfalls on the roof.  
  
To the tune of whispering rain, I pad softly to the kitchen in woolen socks. Water heats slowly on the stovetop as I ready a navy mug with a chamomile tea bag and pop some bread into the toaster. The kettle whistles its call, and I pour the steaming liquid into my cup to steep. I swirl golden honey into my tea, then butter and plate the warm toast.  
  
A pillowy sofa awaits me by the large glass window overlooking the people and buildings below. I snuggle into place and eat my breakfast while watching the raindrops chase each other down the panes. The city below is hushed by the hazy weather, seeming more peaceful than the usual hustle and bustle.  
  
Setting aside my plate, I retrieve my book and a fuzzy blanket then retreat back to the solace of my plush sofa. The wind whistles softly, and the rain plays a backdrop melody. While occasionally sipping tea, I turn the pages of another world. Reading is best done with an accompaniment of rainfall to break the silence.  
  
What many people think of as bad weather, I would describe as perfect. A sunny day full of picnics and people bathing in the heat, or a morning blanket of glistening snow to play in before curling up by the fire sounds nice. Yet, nothing quite compares to the comfort of reading a good book and watching the misty air dance with water droplets. The best weather is the kind that softly lulls you into a state of tranquility.


	9. Make up the most ridiculous name you can think of, then describe that person’s day.

Meet Mortimer Montgomery Montag, the most mundane man on the face of the planet. Every Monday at six sharp, he wakes up wearing light blue striped pajamas then makes his bed. He uses the toilet, jumps through a shower, and takes his dental hygiene far too seriously. After brushing his teeth for the exact time it takes him to hum twinkle-twinkle twice and flossing between every tooth, he slicks his dull brown hair back with some store-brand pomade and exits the bathroom.  
  
Awaiting him in the closet is a selection of button-down shirts in the shades of white, light blue, and slightly lighter blue. He grabs a white one today and one of his numerous pairs of khaki pants. Do not be alarmed by the lack of variety in his wardrobe, however, for he also has a few polo shirts in varying shades of blue and three pairs of khaki shorts. He dresses himself then puts on navy socks to spice up the color palette a bit.  
  
At precisely six-thirty, Mortimer goes into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. The awaiting liquid is freshly made by the automatic pot that is set to start at six twenty-five on the dot. He puts two slices of toast in the toaster and sips his drink while he waits. Once done, he eats the toast plain then pours the remaining coffee in a to-go mug for work.  
  
Sliding on his brown Oxford shoes, he grabs the mug of coffee and heads out the door, checking his watch to see he is precisely on time. He picks up the morning paper and walks to the nearest bus stop, arriving at exactly six fifty-five. The bus is due at seven.  
  
Mr. Montag greets the bus driver, then sits in his usual seat to read the paper as he sips at his second coffee of the morning. He makes it to work at seven twenty-two, meaning the route took two minutes longer than scheduled. His shift at the office supply store starts at seven-thirty, so he makes his way inside to the break room while waiting to clock in. He pulls out his phone to leave a negative review of the bus line for taking longer than advertised; this is his seventy-seventh negative review.


	10. “If you don’t risk anything, you risk more.” What does this mean to you?

If I fail and proceed to never try again, have I prevented myself from ever re-failing or ensured that failure? If I never dare to chase my dreams, have I eased the pain of trying and never achieving them or have I already accepted that pain? If I never take a risk, if I never pursue anything extraordinary, will I evade the loss of falling short, or will I lose more by never taking that risk?  
  
Walking along the masses, I see the faces of people who have settled for mediocrity —people who have given up their dreams for safety. Do the faceless droves of cubicle-dwellers working nine-to-five feel less like failures than the waitress in LA that dreamed of being an actress and never got the part? Is the risk of failure so significant that it is not worth the chance at success? Are we so afraid of loss that we live in monotony to escape the possibility of reaching for a better life only to have it evade our grasps?  
  
What if we risk a chance to chase our dreams and succeed? Is the fight not worth the fall? Are we afraid of never making it, or rather, are we afraid of success? Are we eagles living the lives of sheep because we fear the sky, or because we fear our wings can not get us there? Perhaps the risk is worth the fall. What is a bird that never spreads it’s wings to fly, but a coward?


	11. Write something that starts with Emily Dickinson’s line, “Bring me the sunset in a cup.”

Bring me the sunset in a cup, so I may drink the warmth of a setting sun, and fill my plate with flowers, so I may fill up my soul with beauty. I have felt neither warmth in my heart nor grace in my soul since I last felt the softness of your kiss. Weave me a handkerchief of silk, so I may feel the softness on my lips.

Stuff my pillows with lavender, so I may rest at perfect ease, and weave my bedclothes with threads of flame, so I may feel that warmth again. I have not slept peacefully in warm and caring arms since I last woke up to see the stars in your eyes. Unhinge the ceiling of my chambers, so I may wake staring into the heavens one last time.


	12. What is your greatest fear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw death mention, tw atelophobia

Atelophobia. What is that you may ask yourself. In short, it is the fear of failure or of never being good enough. Many people probably have this fear in some aspect of their lives, such as students stressing over exams or applicants in job interviews. It is a common phobia, yet taken to the extreme, it can be crisis-inducing. Such a common fear becomes one of my greatest horrors.  
  
Imagine with me, a middle-class, white, American girl born into a loving family in the mid-90’s. She has no exceptional disposition toward greatness, was not born with a golden spoon in her mouth, yet is not fighting for a chance in the world either. The blankest of slates, the middle of the middle, she is not a nobody, yet she is not anybody of significance yet. Notice that, “yet” in there?  
  
Her parents struggle, but put her through college to help her attain any skill she deems reachable. With enough intelligence and determination, the sky is the limit. That is the expectation: she gets a good degree, a stable job, a loving husband, kids, and a white picket fence. Everyone expects it, yet nobody will notice when it is achieved.  
  
The everyday success of an average middle-class adult is as astounding as a dusted shelf — nobody notices that it is not dusty. However, if that level of success is not reached, people will see the layers of dust on the shelf. People only notice what is not there. In this case, people do not take note of you if you are as average as expected, yet they will always see your failures in glaring detail.  
  
So, imagine if this girl manages to grow up and be exactly what she is expected to be — you get yourself another sparkling clean shelf in a store full of shelves. She becomes another face in the crowd, and when her life is over, just another stone in a graveyard. A shelf needs trinkets and trophies, as does a human being.  
  
Average is enough for many, enough to keep the disappointed looks of others from seeing failure when they gaze your way. That fear always nags, though, what if eluding failure is not enough? Is mediocrity failure in and of itself? And so, the phobia eats away at all confidence until the only way to evade it is to become the most successful version of yourself possible.  
  
The problem with reaching for the sky, however, is never knowing when you have acquired it. No matter how much you achieve or how high you climb, there is so much space above you — you are never significant enough. At the end of your life, you are a stone in a graveyard, and if you are good enough, perhaps that gravestone will be inscribed with a great accomplishment. Yet, no matter how magnificent the achievement, one day, no one will be around that still deems it good enough to remember — and the gravestone will moss over like the stones of bums and failures.  
  
This is atelophobia — the soul-crushing weight of knowing no matter how good you are, it will amount to nothing in the end; the fear that in the race of life, you will come dead-last despite starting in the middle. A mind like this tells you that average is failure, and greatness is mediocrity — that no matter your accomplishments, you will never be good enough.  
  
This is my greatest fear: that I am not enough.


	13. In one minute, list as many thing as you can think of that can be found in a hospital. Then write a story that isn’t set in a hospital using all those words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw death mention, tw hospitals, tw medical themes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: patients, doctors, nurses, needles/IVs, beds, waiting room, scalpel, heart monitor, medicine.

Molly is playing quietly with her dolls in the playroom. The sounds of her father sniffling from the bedroom nearby drift in to echo in the space. She lines her toys up against the baseboards in her fantasy waiting room inside the play hospital she has built — her imagination not straining much to create such a familiar place.  
  
Tucking a stray strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, she pulls out a small plastic bed from the toy-box and places the brown-haired barbie on the cold surface. It was the doll her mother bought for her last year, a mommy-and-me set — the child doll from the pair is in the waiting room still. Molly puts the bed and patient into a separate space in the playroom, then tapes a red string from the figurine’s arm to a red lego brick, imitating what she saw in the hospital room. She sets up a play cellphone next to the woman and imitates the beeping the machine had made, “beep, beep, beep.”  
  
A Ken doll is placed in the room as well, wearing a light blue outfit like the friendly doctors and nurses at the real hospital. He has a butter knife taped to his arm, but it looks nothing like the scalpel she witnessed at the emergency surgery. She had quickly glanced as she was being ushered out of the room. The long beep still ringing in her memory, she copies that sound too, “beep…”  
  
Molly closes the phone slowly and stops the drawn-out beep she was holding. Putting the doll with her likeness into the room, she places small white lego pills next to the bed by her mother. “I’m sorry,” are the words the kind doctor had said. Taking a blue marker, she draws tears on another doll’s face, this one a blond male doll with a likeness of her father.  
  
The sniffling can still be heard echoing through the now silent playroom — through the quiet and somber house. The medicine did not work; the doctors could not fix her. Molly’s mother would not be coming home. “Her heart gave out,” she had overheard one doctor say to her father. With a sad determination, she walked over to the window sill and picked up the red clay heart that read, “I love you, mommy,” in her small child’s handwriting. She snapped it in two — that is when the first tear fell.


	14. Pick a piece of furniture and write a story from it’s point of view.

My name is Harold Booth, and I am a sofa at the best coffee shop in New York City. I may only be eight years old, but I’ve seen my fair share of life. You may call it eavesdropping, but I call it giving people support in their time of need — literally. Ha!  
  
I moved to New York when I was only five days old and then was adopted by the lovely shop owners here when I was a month-and-a-half. It has been a great life, full of the aroma of coffee beans and pastries. I even get to taste the food from time to time, usually when a child decides to share some crumbs with me. My favorite is the blueberry muffin; I have some saved for later in one of my seam-folds, but don’t tell mom.  
  
Janice is the lovely woman who adopted me, so I call her my mother — even though she is a human, and I am furniture. Every day at 5 AM sharp, she greets me good morning — not with words, but with a smile as she glances over her array of children. My brother, Otto, is the eldest here; he is an ottoman they adopted before the coffee shop even opened.  
  
Dad comes in at noon to take over the workload from my mother, and she usually sits near me while taking a break. I like to think I am one of her favorite children, or perhaps she wants to offer me companionship since I have seen so much in my short life here. It is nice to be there for people.  
  
After only four short months here, I lost count of the number of breakups I had witnessed. It is nice to think I was a shoulder-rest to cry on in those times of need. It is not all bad however, the number of flustered teens and young adults on their first dates here outweighs the negatives ten to one.  
  
My favorite customers, though, have to be the elderly couple who come here on Tuesday afternoons. The lovely woman always smells of fresh flowers from the bouquet she gets on the weekly. It is nice to see people so in love for such a long time, it makes me think perhaps the young ones will revisit me in twenty or so years, married and happy and in love. Also, I like smelling like flowers for a few hours after they leave.


	15. Complete the statement, “I’d walk a mile for a ____” and then continue from there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw disability, tw homelessness, tw death mention

“I’d walk a mile for a pair of legs that could take me farther than this wheelchair ever will,” admits the paraplegic as he watches the track meet at his son’s middle school. The children are complaining loudly about having to exercise, wishing they could sit down somewhere, rather than grateful that they can move about unconfined. “What a privilege it must be to take for granted something I so longingly desire.”  
  
“I would gladly speak to angry customers for a voice that spoke volumes more than my signing hands could possibly dream of doing,” thinks the woman in line at the grocery store. The clerk ahead is threatening to quit her job because she can not stand talking nicely to irate shoppers who do not like the rules. As the mute woman is being checked out, she can only just convey her lack of speech to the cashier who does not know sign language. “How nice it would be to have someone understand me, even if they were unkind on occasion.”  
  
“I would spend hours push-mowing the lawn for a home that is not on the cold streets,” shivers out a homeless man on a visible breath. The husband, who had just walked past the freezing man’s sleeping bag, had been complaining to his wife that the coming warm weather meant hours of manual labor in the yard. “There isn’t a yard big enough or a repair so demanding that I wouldn’t gladly take it on to avoid sleeping one more night on the urine-soaked pavement prone to the elements and criminals alike.”  
  
“I’d listen to my father complain about the weather hours-on-end for a chance to hear his voice just one more time,” whispered a woman under her breath as a young girl complained of her own father’s chatter. Her dad was on a tangent about a snowy day when he was a little boy her age. “I hope she realizes what a treasure her father can be to her before it’s too late. Regret can not bring back lost time or undo words of dismissal.”  
  
Every day countless people complain about trivial things that would mean the world to someone else. It is said, “one person’s trash is another person’s treasure.” Perhaps it should say, “do not treat like trash the things that ought to be a treasure to you.” Be thankful for the blessings you have. Greet each morning with joy, not because you had to get up early for work, but because you have a job and can say that you lived another day. Some people are not as fortunate.


	16. Write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw death mention kind of

The wind billows unhindered through the desolate graveyard around me, howling fervently over the empty landscape. There are no birds chirping or squirrels scuttling to add harmony to the gusts of the air. It is quiet enough that the faintness of the breeze sounds like a hurricane. In isolation, I find that this silence is perhaps the loudest sound of all.  
  
In the battlefield where my friends and family, everyone I ever knew, expelled their last breath of oxygen, I stand as the sole survivor. My home is now a graveyard, marked by death, yet it is not a burial ground. The remnants of my people’s lives have been unceremoniously taken; their bodies beaten and burned — mutilated into objects for humans to sit upon.  
  
Not a leaf or branch left to remember them by, only dead stumps where they used to thrive; I mourn in silence as the scars of their last stand fade from the earth. The tire tracks of the attackers fade from the dirt in time, and the litter of cigarette butts and candy wrappers get blown away and then buried. Eventually, the landscape looks like a barren desert — no one remembers what was lost, what was taken.  
  
The animals that once called this forest home are now homeless or worse — what is one more casualty if it stands in the way of “progress.” What was once a sanctuary of life is now an abandoned wasteland. My kin, who once produced air for humans to breathe, were slaughtered for more profitable means.  
  
I am the last tree standing in this abysmal space, the last tree still caring for the people who slaughtered my own brethren. My nature is to be kind and give life to those around me, providing oxygen, shelter, and food to my neighbors. Yet, in the wake of such enormous loss, I can only wish that my emissions were poison to humanity and not the life-giving air they breathe.


	17. Use this metaphor to spark a poem or story: a chest of childhood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw mild reference to verbal domestic violence

Taking a deep breath, I sit in the attic of my parent’s house to look through my childhood toys. It has been many years since I moved away, yet with a baby on the way, it would be nice to pass on some of my own things from childhood. The things I find take me back — less nostalgic and more solemn than expected.  
  
A doll with her hair cut off lays at the top of a box. I remember cutting it off because it was prettier than my own, blonde hair instead of an ugly orange. I had since learned to love my ginger locks, this barbie a reminder of when I did not. It brings back memories of being called names for being a “carrot top” and people telling me, “gingers have no souls.” I throw out the damaged doll and promise myself to buy my child one with her hair color — and to let her know she is beautiful just as she is.  
  
A soccer ball is pulled out next; it is without a smudge because dad was always too busy to play. In fact, I do not think I ever played a single game with it — or any other sport for that matter. He was always too busy to spend time with me, and now I have no fond memories of us from my childhood. I put the soccer ball in the keep pile and swear to myself that I will take the time to play with my child; I do not want her to feel as abandoned and unimportant as I did.  
  
Many of the items have little meaning to me, most bring back memories of fights that I overheard while playing with them. Perhaps, all of the bad memories should be thrown out and replaced with new ones — new toys for my daughter without the unhappy past attached, fresh memories for myself as I give her the childhood I did not receive. I move all the boxes into the donate pile, and vow to raise a child that does not witness all the fights that still ring in my memory. It is my wish that when she goes through her own toys in twenty-something years, she looks back with fondness and not sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Happy Birthday to me! I'm 24 today! (Wow, I'm old.)


	18. What is your most prized possession?

My most prized possession could be something like my first acrylic painting, where I started to learn the ropes of art; the still life that was published in a local newspaper stands out as well. Yet, it is not the artwork that I prize. The process of learning to paint and the experience of going to art classes far exceeds the picture’s value. Both paintings were gifted to my mother because her happiness means more to me than keeping the work. My joy came through working on them then again while giving them away.  
  
If a possession’s worth can be measured by how often it is used, then perhaps my phone and laptop should be at the top of the list. However, it is not the electronic devices that I treasure; it is the freedom and creativity I can express with them. The stories I can write, the illustrations I can produce, the people I can connect with are the reason these things hold value. If I could not create, express, and connect with my devices, they would lose their meaningfulness to me.  
  
When asked what my most prized possession is, I would be most likely to answer that it is, of course, my pets. And although I may technically own them, they are living beings that I feel as though I do not truly control. I feed and care for them — love them, and in return, they love me. Yet, to say that I possess them feels wrong to me. They may not have a say in where they live or the care received, but they can choose to dislike me or even fear me if I do not treat them right. Because of their ability to think for themselves, in the sense that they may not choose to like me, I do not own them.  
  
That leads me to my truly prized possessions. If I can say that an animal that I do not own is a prized possession, then I must confess that it is the people in my life that I value the most. Of course, I do not own my family, but in a way, I possess their care — their love. I can not control them. They are free to choose me or walk away. This is what makes them valuable to me; not that they are mine out of obligation, but out of choice.  
  
Therefore, my most prized possessions are not possessions at all. They are living, loving beings. I may not own them, but I have been gifted their love. That is what I prize: the love that has been given to me by the people I care about. It is not a tangible object, yet I would not trade it for a house of gold.


	19. Describe a place or event using all five senses.

The warm amber glow of the ceiling light casts a cozy atmosphere in my grandmother's kitchen. My sister and I are placing ingredients back into the pantry as the stand-mixer whirs to life — mixing the dough. I lick some sweet golden honey off my finger after replacing the jar in the cupboard. The cookie dough is mixed, and my grandmother, sister, and I all start rolling the sticky mixture into little spheres. It smells like honey, molasses, and cloves — the smell associated with the annual baking of Christmas cookies.

The last batch of molasses cookies are a beautiful golden brown color. As they cool, I run the water to wash the mixing bowl and measuring cups — the water splashing as it hits the spoons in the bottom of the sink. Before putting the bowl in with the rest of the dishes, I scoop a spare bit of dough from the side and savor its sweet flavor. Perhaps, the water is a bit too warm, given the heat in the kitchen, but the temperature enhances the smell. Over the notes of molasses, there is a nutty aroma that blends in perfectly with the sweetness in the air.

The cookies have cooled and been placed in a Christmas tin for the following day's enjoyment. I sneak one out and follow my family into the sitting room where carols are playing on the old radio by the sofa. Sitting down next to my sister, we each take a bite of our cookies and savor the taste of spices and sweetness of honey. The couch is a soft support beneath us as we rest and chat with our grandmother. The smell of pine mixes with the aroma of baked cookies as we enjoy the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. This is, perhaps, my favorite day of the year.


	20. Write a scary story that starts in a thrift store.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw blood, tw death, tw car accident

Annetta was sifting through items in the local thrift store when she found it — an old framed photograph of a handsome young man. At the time, she was entranced by his lovely smile and charming eyes. Now, looking back, she realizes the photo drew her in for another reason entirely — a more sinister reason, indeed.  
  
Without questioning why she would want a framed picture of a man she did not know, Annetta purchased the object and took it home. The photograph was hung in her small bedroom as soon as she arrived home, then she went on with her day as usual. That night, a compulsion to stare into the young man’s eyes overtook her before drifting off to sleep. Little did she know, this would be the last normal day of her life.  
  
When she awoke the next morning, Annetta looked gleefully up at the photograph only to notice it had changed overnight. The handsome man was still smiling that charming grin, but he was standing amid a garden of daisies next to a fence she recognized as her own. There came a knock on the door, and she quickly put on her housecoat to answer it.  
  
Once opened, the doorway framed a majestic man identical to the photo — complete with the daisy-lined fence in the background. She was at a loss for words and stared in awe at the strange coincidence that was standing on her front porch. The man explained he was new to the neighborhood and wanted to meet his neighbors, and she delighted in introducing herself to this striking gentleman.  
  
Months passed, and Annetta always knew when her new neighbor would visit because the painting would show him standing in the doorway holding flowers or other gifts. For some unknowable reason, she never questioned why the picture knew when her lovely neighbor, George, would visit or when he was away and what he was doing. The photograph seemed to follow this man’s life with extreme accuracy in predicting the day’s events.  
  
Months turned to years, and in the spring of ’68, Annetta and George got married. The framed photo was beautiful that morning, capturing the love of her life in his swanky suit standing at the altar. It pained her that the picture would not remain this way, just as it hurt her to hide the object in the attic of their new house — keeping it hidden from her husband.  
  
For the next eight years, after George left for work each day, Annetta would creep up into the attic and check the photograph to watch over her love’s workday. Life was good, until one Wednesday after breakfast had been cleared away, she went to check in on her husband’s portrait. She reached the attic, uncovered the old photo, and began to panic.  
  
The photo at first appeared to be void of any people, but upon closer inspection, the mangled form of her husband could just be made out in the rubble. It took a moment to process that she was looking at an automobile accident with George at the wheel — dead. Once the realization struck, she dashed down the steps to call his office and tell him not to drive back home, for surely he had made it there already.  
  
No one picked up the phone at her husband’s office, and that is when she heard a knock at the door. Her blood running with ice, Annetta opened the door to see two police officers with solemn expressions. She knew. Without them having uttered a single word, it was known the love of her life was dead. If only she had checked the image sooner, perhaps she could have prevented it — maybe George would still be alive.  
  
After months of mourning, Annetta finally gathered the courage to look at the photograph one last time before throwing it out. She expected it to be blank now that the subject was long gone. It was not. Of all the times the wish had been for the photo to remain stagnant, as a treasure of a memorable event, this was the last thing she ever wanted to see. The dusty print of George’s accident was still there — a reminder of what she had lost.  
  
Annetta picked the photo up, ready to burn the sick reminder of what she could not prevent when she noticed blood dripping from the fame onto the attic floor. With mounting terror, she rushed the cursed thing downstairs to the open fireplace and threw it in. For the first time since she bought it, Annetta wondered why she never felt unsettled by an enchanted changing photograph. She watched as the paper burned away and the frame slowly charred into un-recognition. It was over.  
  
It was, in fact, not over. Every morning for the rest of her long and haunted life, Annetta woke to a freshly hung photo of her dead husband — blood dripping down the wall. At first, she was terrified, re-burning the object over and over again to no avail. Going as far as to stay at the houses of friends and family, the photograph always found it’s way to her no matter how distant. By the time she was old and gray, she had resigned herself to her morning routine of burning the memory of George’s death and then washing the wall, again and again, and again.  
  
She looked forward to the day she would die, and when it came, she welcomed death with open arms — ready to see her husband alive for the first time in nearly forty years. What Annetta could never have known, however, is that at the time her heart stopped ticking, the photograph appeared in another thrift shop. A young woman was shopping there and noticed a charming portrait of a young man; she was enchanted to buy it beyond all reason. Thus, the cycle repeats itself.


	21. Write a story using the line, “There’s a herd of them!”

The crew of the spaceship, Paracosmia, cheered as they touched down for the first time on the planet, W-441. They were the first manned mission to this beautiful ecosystem, the only one besides earth with a breathable atmosphere and signs of life. Of course, the planet was entirely covered in water and floating plant-matter, and the probes had not been able to predict the type of lifeforms they might find miles beneath the murky surface. That was the mission of Paracosmia’s crew: deep-water exploration and the discovery of new species.  
  
“Whatever’s down there, it’s big,” commented James as he was suiting up in his Ultra-Dive-5000 exploration suit. The crew had probe thermal-imagery of large blob-like masses moving about in the depths. “Big doesn’t even begin to cover it,” replied Katie as she adjusted her own suit, “whatever’s down there is at least the size of ten blue whales combined!” The third and final diver, Jonah, gave a weary look to Luke, the mission commander who would be monitoring their video feeds and vitals back on the floating spaceship.  
  
The time came for James, Katie, and Jonah to dive into the murky dark waters. Armed with advanced high-powered underwater lights and expensive camera equipment, they plunged deeper and deeper into the increasingly warm water. “Kind of odd that it’s getting warmer instead of colder, don’t you think, James?” asked Katie. “It’s almost like something’s heating it up down here. You reading the temp change, Luke?” Luke replied in an affirmative — a full eight-degree increase so far.  
  
James and Katie were busy filming floating plant matter as they descended so they could catalog and name it later on the ship. Jonah was the first to notice a giant shadow moving beneath them and gasped in slight terror. “Why did I have to be named after the guy who got swallowed by a whale?” he thought. The three divers paused their descent and set up their high-beam lights, focusing them downwards.  
  
Once illuminated, the entire team was shocked into silence by what they saw. A cow. Specifically, an emerald cow with a single pink horn on its head and sixteen violet tentacles instead of hind-hooves. “Guys,” Luke sounded worried, “talk to me. What are we looking at?”  
  
“Unicorns!” exclaimed Katie, in awe. “Unicorns?” the three men asked in unison, apparent confusion in their tone.  
  
Before Katie could explain the excitement of discovering her six-year-old self’s dream animal, the first cow-unicorn-squid-thing spotted them and let out a low, “moo.” More of the species started appearing in their field of vision, getting closer far too quickly for comfort. “There’s a herd of them!” shrieked James, the three ascended as fast as the suits would allow. It was no use; the creatures were faster and caught up in seconds.  
  
Jonah closed his eyes in fear, then felt a gentle brush of something against his clothed palm. When he opened his eyes, he could not believe what he saw brushing against him. In each of the suckers on the creature’s tentacles, there was a baby cow-squid-unicorn. They were still the size of a minivan, yet they were all coming out of their suction-cups to greet the divers. And more surprisingly, they just wanted to be petted. Maybe W-441 was not such a scary planet, after all.


	22. Invent and describe a new disease.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw death mention

Lamercution, from the Latin “lapis mercedis retributionem,” meaning “stone retribution,” is a disease discovered by Russian scientist, Victor Ivanov. Since its outbreak in Moscow, Russia, on the 18th of December, 2019, the disease has spread worldwide to all major cities and rural areas. Commonly called “the plague of the 21st century,” it has racked up a death toll of over twelve-million people in just two short months.  
  
This new illness has been cited as the “quickest spreading viral disease in history,” by doctor Gregory Ainsworth of the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia. Recent reports suggest that the affliction passes to others through lying to them. Researchers came to this conclusion after all quarantine attempts failed the moment a patient lied about his or her medical status — even with medical-grade containment facilities.  
  
With this particular ailment taking immediate effect upon contraction, the survival rate is estimated as low as ten percent. Small children appear to be immune to this disease, while politicians, businessmen, and felons are among the most affected. Sudden death may occur upon contamination in extreme cases.  
  
Lamercution affects all areas of the body in no apparent order, turning skin, bone, and even vital organs into solid stone. There seems to be a link between the amount of stone a person contracts, and the character of the patient involved. All afflicted individuals are advised to do no harmful deeds while affected as this increases the concentration of stone and can sometimes be fatal.  
  
Doctors and scientists are working around the clock on a permanent cure yet so far have come up empty-handed. Small stone tumors from non-vital organs may be removed surgically, although it is uncertain whether they will regrow. An unofficial report from Helen Brown, the head of the Center for Community Outreach in Ontario, Canada, states, “It is possible, though not scientifically proven, that good deeds and intentions may reverse the effects of this disease or immunize a person against it.”  
  
With this new plague spreading as quickly and as easily as with a phone call or misinformed article on the internet, it is estimated that 98.8% of the world’s population will have been affected by the end of 2020. While small children and a few remote tribes show no signs of catching this sickness, this could effectively wipe out humanity. The World Health Organization has issued a public plea to all citizens of earth, “a viable cure for Lamercution is needed in the following year to prevent extinction.”  
  
Many laymen are following the advice of community service leaders, convinced that good deeds and a pure heart can save their lives. There is a marked infirmity decrease in this group of do-gooders; however, it is uncertain whether the acts themselves are cause for remission of the disease. Perhaps, it truly requires, “the heart of a child,” as stated by nurse, Theresa Smith, who has been exposed to Lamercution daily since the outbreak and has yet to show any symptoms.


	23. Have three people give you one word each, use these in a story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have three people available so I used a website. randomwordgenerator.com: bird, haircut, dish.

It was a crisp summer day as Daisy Beckham fiddled around in her little one-room salon. The front windows were open to let the breeze blow through the shop as she readied the place for business. The bell jingled above the door as her first client arrived for their haircut.  
  
After cutting, dyeing, waxing, and styling hair all day long, Daisy returned home exhausted. She was quite tired, and thus she had resigned herself to sweeping the last of the hair up in the morning. What could it hurt to leave it for a night?  
  
The next morning, Miss Beckham arrived at her salon early enough to tidy up the place before opening time. The windows were still open from the previous day, and had it been a shop in the big city, there might have been a theft. However, nothing seemed out of place, and she carried on arranging supplies before retrieving the broom.  
  
Wait a second! The hair is gone. Had someone snuck in the clumsily forgotten windows only to clean up the mess or had her memory failed, and she forgot that she cleaned it up herself? While placing the broom back by the shelves of empty dishes, Daisy realized what had happened.  
  
There sat a little brown bird in one of her bowls made for mixing hair-dye. Underneath the bird was a neatly woven nest of hair — the same dark blonde as was on the floor last night. Carefully, the dish with the hair-strewn nest was lifted away and placed outside under the awning to protect it from any rain. A disgruntled chirp rang through the salon as the feathered intruder rearranged herself in the new fluffy home.


	24. Take something cute or normal and make it scary or weird.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw something probably but idk what

The stomach is a graveyard and the mouth, a battlefield. To sustain the mortal flesh, we must gorge ourselves on the corpses of others. The acid baths in the gut-pits rot flora and fauna that once lived in freedom. Dead remnants sucked of all nutrients, are left for the earth to reclaim once more.  
  
Mastication is the initial battle between protruding bone and feeble sustenance. The lives of many animals and plants have died to feed this war. Mixed with the consuming saliva of destruction, the prey bleed their juicy blood for our survival — sliding down muscled esophagi to the pits of comestible-hell.  
  
There in the blackest cavity, the gastric acid begins to seep into the mutilated carcasses of the fallen nutrients. Decay is imminent. The remains are broken down to their core then absorbed into the victor for strength as the excess is thrust on through muscled and squirming tubes.  
  
At the end of the snaking and draining passageway, the roughage is discarded like the foulest of waste. The initial victors too proud to pay respect to the lives that fortified them; all remains are drowned and buried in a septic wasteland.  
  
Devouring, eating, is a disgusting act of animalistic impulse that leaves no survivors.


	25. Take something scary or weird and make it cute or normal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw spiders kind of

Hi, my name is Charlotte, and I am a Demodex. I was named after the spider in the famous book, _Charlotte’s Web, _since I have eight legs. Do not be afraid though; I am not a spider, though technically I could be classified as an arachnid.  
  
I am teeny-tiny with pretty little translucent scales that help me to hold on when I climb around. Sometimes, at night mostly, I like to run — even making it up to six inches per hour. That is pretty fast for me.  
  
My favorite snacks are oils and old skin cells. Do not be alarmed — I only clean up what you do not need. Demodicidae do not hurt their hosts, even though we are called parasites. We live in eyelashes and eyebrows mostly, but nobody really notices. Most people host a whole city of us, and sometimes I like to wave at my fellow Demodex as you wave at your friend they live on.  
  
I live on your right eyelashes. It is so cozy here with lots of tasty treats. Sometimes you put mascara on my home; you are perfect to me without it, but I do not mind. I think you are the most fantastic person in the whole world, perhaps I am partial though. My entire family, all my friends, and I have been with you your entire life — cheering you on. Next time you accomplish something, know that I am clapping all eight of my tiny hands in congratulations.__


	26. Describe yourself from an outsider’s perspective.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw self-image issues

Mirror, mirror on the wall, point to all my greatest flaws,  
Show me all my great mistakes, the confidence my mirror takes.  
Reflect a monster back to me, an ugly person is what I see.

Mirror, mirror can not define, what’s in my heart or in my mind.  
Reflection only shows the skin and not the person deep within.  
So tell me, then, what would you see if you could glimpse the real me?

Mother, mother that sees me, not skin and bone but what’s beneath.  
Judge not the cover of my book, and give confidence the mirror took.  
You see the girl under the skin, not a monster, but what’s within.


	27. Write a recipe for something that isn’t food.

**Recipe for a Good Day**

**Ingredients** :

  * Water
  * Kettle
  * Chamomile Tea Bags
  * Cute Mug
  * Good Book
  * Blankets
  * Watercolors
  * Paint Brushes
  * Paper
  * Cat
  * Rainstorm (optional)



**Directions** :

Place water in the kettle and heat. When the desired temperature is met, pour the liquid over a chamomile tea bag in a cute mug. Wrap yourself in warm blankets then add a good book and the previously made tea. This step requires a few hours and is enhanced by listening to the optional rainstorm. Next, set out the watercolors, brushes, and paper on a work station. Paint without a goal in mind until at ease with the world. The duration of the watercolor step varies by the cook. Once finished, curl back up in the blankets with a cat — preferably your own cat. (This recipe does not condone animal theft.)


	28. Put your music on shuffle and write something inspired by the first song that plays.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw suicide, tw self-harm, tw depression, tw blood, tw knives/blades, tw death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Ghost by Badflower

How much blood must I bleed to escape? Am I trapped in this skin, in this fate? I tried twice before to get away and failed both times with my mistakes. Is this admission too much to take?  
  
Between the attempts, I’d claw my pain away with a blade. Take the knife away. The scars still haunt me like tiny ghosts — never deep enough to release my own. I have vivid memories of blood pouring from my veins, and yet, the regret hurts more than the blade ever did.  
  
I used to have letters, just in case it worked; I didn’t want to leave without a goodbye. My death would have haunted the people I loved, the people I still love. Instead, the scars haunt me. Life is overwhelming, and I never could escape it with a knife.  
  
Am I a freak for hurting myself sometimes? Does it scare you that I could have become a ghost?


	29. Create an advertisement for a product that doesn’t exist.

Hi, it's Sam here repping Extrovert Repellant™. It's a fool-proof, easy spray to get rid of those pesky small-talkers. A regular squirt-bottle of water only works on cats, this works on all those annoying people too. This is for the office, the store, the party you had to come to but really didn't want to.  
  
Extrovert Repellant™ is twelve-times more efficient at getting rid of close-talkers than faking the flu. Why would you want to talk to your co-workers when you can douse them with this product? It doesn't affect introverts, doesn't make a mess, and keeps your social life non-existent. It comes in eight, twelve, and sixteen-ounce spray bottles. Made in Japan, you know the Japanese always make good stuff.  
  
See a boss, teacher or acquaintance from college? Not only are you going to have to small-talk, you may have to shake hands or even hug them. That sounds like a nightmare, right? Now we're gonna do this in real-time, look at this, aim the repellant directly at the person's face, squeeze the trigger once or twice, presto… the extrovert is gone! No other product is going to do that.  
  
It acts like a shield, and look at this — virtually no people want to interact with you after only one month of using this product. See what I'm telling you? Extrovert Repellant™, you'll be glad you bought it. You're gonna spend twenty minutes or more every day on small-talk anyway. You're throwing away your time — and time is money.  
  
The Extrovert Repellant™ sells for as low as $19.99 for eight ounces. You get one for the office, one for your purse, two for the cars. But if you call now, within the next twenty minutes, because we can't do this all day, we'll give you a smaller, two-ounce bottle absolutely free. So that's months of no human interaction for just $19.99. It comes with a satisfaction guarantee.  
  
Here's how to order, Call 1-800-GoAway. Extrovert Repellant™ is not available in stores and is made only in Japan. Beware of imitators, call 1-800-GoAway, that's 1-800-GoAway. Call now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly based on that ShamWow commercial


	30. Write about something in nature.

Water is the ultimate metaphor for humanity. It is everywhere. The many forms that water takes across the globe are as varied as the cultures of people that inhabit it. Yet, at its core, all water is the same — a molecular formula of h2O.  
  
The largest expanse of water is the ocean. In a constant state of change, this body will always be breathtaking and wild. Nothing about the look of the ocean’s surface ever stays the same, though it is still recognizable. Every day, the waters change, yet it is always worth admiring. As a human being, the ebb and flow of reshaping oneself is a constant melody of waves.  
  
Ice is water, too. The ancient mountains of frozen ground near the earth’s poles stand the test of time as does every old soul that weathers the changing of life’s seasons. It is reliable and unchanging — a pillar of stability. Yet, ice can melt from its rigidity; it can change into streams and rivers and lakes. Icebergs can fall and float into warmer waters and become part of a larger and more fluid state of being.  
  
Storms are perhaps the most destructive form of water, with the force to sink massive ships. Tornados, hurricanes, and thunderstorms rage through entire civilizations — wreaking havoc on many lives. People can be catastrophic, as well. Chaos and destruction are left in the wake of many storms, and sometimes, those storms have skin. Not all rain is violent, however. Spring showers are needed for flowers to thrive. A gentle sprinkle of life-giving water to those in need, rainfall is sometimes a blessing. Water is essential to all life, and while it may be destructive, it can be soothing and calm.  
  
Humanity is a mass of unchanging glaciers and frigid ice, ever-changing oceans, and storms of all shapes and sizes. Our bodies are mostly water, and it shows in our actions — the way we imitate the life-blood of the earth. In the end, we are all storms and oceans that are called by human names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the quote, "I am not a girl, I am a storm with skin."


	31. Describe a day from your pet’s point of view.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a few days late on the last one.

I wake up, afloat.

Swim, swim, swim.

I hide behind some plastic leaves.

Swim around in circles.

Food appeared, so I eat.

Swim, swim, swim.

I am a boring pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't even try, tbh.


End file.
